


Sexplanations (Of the Horrible Sort)

by bixgirl1



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Draco, Confused Relationships, Dirty Talk, Embarrassing Situations, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Humor, M/M, Secret Relationship, Secret Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Snark, sex injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-18
Updated: 2018-09-18
Packaged: 2019-07-14 03:24:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16031990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bixgirl1/pseuds/bixgirl1
Summary: Harry's willing to put up with a certain amount of injury, as long as he and Malfoy can keep doing... whatever it is they're doing. Maybe. Mostly.Especially if there might be more to it than sex.Based on a tumblr headcanon.





	Sexplanations (Of the Horrible Sort)

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, so I've been having the shittiest couple of weeks and not much has made me smile, but I stumbled across this post [Harry sprains his wrist](https://justdrarryme.tumblr.com/post/178211411013/once-harry-sprains-his-wrist-from-vigorously) on tumblr this morning and it made me absolutely _grin._ So I pounded this out (no puns, guys, please!), just because it kept making me giggle. 
> 
> It's so unbeta-ed, it's not even funny. *snort*
> 
> Credit and thanks to [LadyinBurgundy](https://ladyyinburgundy.tumblr.com/post/178026430194/once-harry-sprains-his-wrist-from-vigorously) for the original headcanon, and [drarry-imagines](https://drarry-imagines.tumblr.com/post/178107449043/once-harry-sprains-his-wrist-from-vigorously) for adding onto it with their splendid scenarios. You guys made my day.
> 
> All characters belong to JKR and associated publishers.
> 
> **Please DO NOT repost my work on instagram, wattpad, or any other sites, even with credit given. However, if you'd like to share with your followers, a screenshot of the header with accompanying link would be appreciated. Thank you.**

“It’s Malfoy’s fault,” Harry mumbles, seething with mortification when McGonagall raises a stern brow at him. She looks to the little croaking cup on his desk, legs moving like it’s trying to hop, but it’s barely in the shape of a frog and still decidedly ceramic. It’s quite pathetic, actually.

“I see,” she murmurs just as Malfoy — because the dramatic knob _just can’t help himself_ — pipes up, “It is not my fault, Potter, you were the one who—”

Harry glares and Malfoy falls silent. If he’d just _admit_ that he’d got... jealous, or something when Harry took a picture with that fifth year this wouldn’t be a problem. At least, Harry’s pretty sure that’s what he was. But _nooo_ , Malfoy just had to go on and on about the new transfer student from Slytherin when Harry cornered him in the prefect’s bathroom, about how handsome and charming the new bloke is, how he’d only sat with him for a bit of respite from the constant _publicity_ around Hogwarts these days. And then he’d had to mention his _surprisingly elegant hands._

Donald — Dwayne? Harry can never keep track of Americans names — might be considered handsome, sure (in a stupid, ugly sort of way), but _he’s_ never been three fingers deep in Malfoy’s arse as he writhed and moaned and breathlessly begged for more, cock smearing wet over his stomach. Harry doesn’t even _like_ Malfoy, not really, but they’ve been finding themselves tangled up like that ever since the third week of September. And if they can’t seem to stop themselves from getting into these inexplicable situations, Harry’s at least going to make damn sure Dwight’s ‘elegant hands’ stay far away from Malfoy’s tight, winking little arsehole.

Which accounts for his sprained wrist, so mild he hadn’t even realised he might need to go to Madam Pomfrey for it.

McGonagall waits expectantly as they both look at each other from across the aisle. Finally, Malfoy says, “It was both our faults. He did something _utterly daft_ , like he so often does, and I,” he coughs, “pushed him and his wrist hit the wall.”

“Mm.” McGonagall stares at them. “Fighting is automatic detention. I have to say I’m disappointed in both of you,” she says in that way she has that makes Harry feel very small. Even Malfoy seems to shrink a little when she turns her disapproving gaze on him. “You two are assigned hall duty for the next three nights, to be completed together. In addition, Mr Malfoy, you’ll be helping Mr Potter with today’s lesson. Please join him at his desk.”

Grudgingly, Malfoy gathers his things and strides over, dumping everything next to Harry. “I’m trying to stay out of trouble, Potter,” he hisses when McGonagall walks to the head of the room. “You couldn’t have taken detention for the both of us?”

“Why, d’you want to spend more time with _Darby?_ ” Harry asks, turning his attention to the assignment. The ceramic non-frog croaks at him again.

“Dave,” Malfoy says scathingly. “And maybe. So what if I do?”

“Then I guess you’ll have to wait for the next three nights,” Harry says, voice tight. Malfoy stares at him, then flicks his wand with a sigh, spelling Harry’s mess back into a cup. They copy from the board for a few minutes in silence.

“Were you jealous?” Malfoy asks from the corner of his mouth.

Harry flinches. “Were _you?_ ”

“Of course not. Shut up, McGonagall’s looking.” He pauses, his voice dropping. “But we can talk about it more tonight,” he says, nudging Harry’s knee with his own, “on rounds.”

“Lots of dark corridors,” Harry says. He slants him a hesitant glance, blood already thundering hot. His anger’s suddenly gone and Harry has no idea where it went. “To talk in.” 

Malfoy purses his lips, the corners twitching. He nods and applies himself to his work.

“My thoughts exactly.”

***

Whatever is happening on the field does _not_ look good.

Admittedly, it’s not uncommon for Malfoy to go into a snit when he’s playing badly (or to play badly because of the reverse) but he’s been so focused lately, Harry’s shocked that he’s been so off today. He can only hope that whatever Hooch is telling him will calm him down.

It… doesn’t.

Harry draws back in alarm as Malfoy throws his hands up at Madam Hooch and stalks — as best he can, considering he’s limping — over to Harry in the stands, where he shoves his broom into his chest.

“Er...” There are people watching. Harry touches his wand and puts up a privacy shroud so no one can overhear. “What happened over there?”

“I’ve been benched,” Malfoy growls. “Bloody _benched_ , you complete wanker, because I finally let you shag me—”

“ _Let_ me?” Harry asks in disbelief. _Begged_ would be more like it.

“—and that stupid poultice I got did nothing for my thigh, which still hurts. You opened my legs too goddamned wide or something—”

Again, the word ‘beg’ flashes through Harry’s mind, Malfoy’s breathy little whine saying, “Fuck, god, hold them out— _Ah!_ Your cock, that’s, _unngghhh,_ Potter, that’s so good, oh fuck, don’t stop, faster, do it faster, oh fuck I’m going to come!”

“—and it’s still difficult to seat a broom, even though it’s been _hours_ since I had your bloody _ridiculously_ thick cock up my bum, and we are _never_ fucking doing that again!” he finishes on a yell. He throws himself down next to Harry with a grumble, then leans forward onto his knees and buries his face in his hands, blond hair flying as he shakes his head.

“Uh, okay. Sorry,” Harry offers, feeling bad. One of the few things he and Malfoy have actually talked about between all the wanking and fingering and blowjobs and now shagging is what they’d like to do for their careers, and Harry knows Malfoy’s got some talent scouts eyeing him for professional Quidditch. “We don’t have to,” he says. “I like everything else just as much.”

It’s not _quite_ the truth — Harry’s never felt anything so _stunningly_ brilliant as sinking his cock into Malfoy — but it’s not really a lie, either (Malfoy’s mouth on him makes him want to cry and it’s possible he almost has a couple of times), so he doesn’t feel too bad.

Malfoy lifts his head to look at him. He rolls his eyes. “Of _course_ we’re doing it again. I’ve never come so hard in my life. But you’re doing the research for... I don’t know, sex spells or something. Healing spells. You want to be a Healer, anyway, you should figure that shit out now.”

“Right, okay,” Harry says, pleasantly surprised. He lifts his hand to rub Malfoy’s back the way that makes him purr after he climaxes, but suddenly remembers where they are.

So he punches him instead.

“What the fuck, Potter!” Malfoy rubs his arm, scowling. “I’m not injured enough?”

“Fuck, sorry,” Harry blurts. “I just...” He gestures subtly to the students around them, who aren’t even attempting to look like they’re not trying to eavesdrop. One of them pointing a wand at them.

Malfoy huffs. “Yeah, okay. But I’m paying you back for that, later.”

“What’d you tell Hooch?” Harry asks. Malfoy looks at him sharply, glare coming back.

“That I went to the Muggle ballet,” he mutters, colouring fetchingly. “And they pulled me up on stage to perform.”

Harry blinks, unable to catch the laugh that breaks free. “Why would they pull you up?”

“Weasley told me that’s what they do. Don’t they?” he asks, a tad uncertainly.

“I’ve never actually gone,” Harry admits. “But I don’t think so. Why were you asking Ron about the ballet?”

The colour in Malfoy’s face gets deeper. “Granger’s giving me some advice on Muggle things, and she was sick the other day and we’d just got to that and it sounded interesting, okay? So when Weasley showed up to tell me she couldn’t come, I asked if he knew anything about it,” Malfoy says sourly, darting a withering glance at Ron down the row. Harry looks over too, and Ron grins and chortles to himself.

“Oh.” Harry rubs his forehead. “I, er, think he might have been—”

“Yes, I got that,” Malfoy says through his teeth, turning slitted eyes at him. He sags. “Whatever, Hooch won’t know.”

Harry knocks Malfoy’s shoulder with his, as comfortingly as he can with their audience.

***

“I’ve been sent to make sure you’re alright,” Malfoy says stiffly. But he’s got so much anxiety across his face that Harry, despite the knot on his head, feels soothed by it. Malfoy twists his hands together and swallows. “They kept me there for awhile, sorry.”

“S’fine,” Harry slurs. He still feels a little dizzy, a little nauseated and confused, and Malfoy keeps blurring in front of him, but he’s alive and besides— “I got to come, didn’t I?”

Malfoy smirks. It’s way more charming than it should be. “Oh yes,” he says, voice low. His fingers land lightly on Harry’s neck and he walks them up to brush his fringe back, then feathers them over the meditape on Harry’s forehead. In the hospital wing, Harry probably shouldn’t be getting as turned on he is.

“In fact…” Malfoy licks his lips and darts a look around, leaning in. Breath warm against Harry’s ear, he murmurs, “I haven’t even cleaned up yet. You came so _hard_ , Potter, so hard it made _me_ come. Merlin, the way you fucked me, your cock all the way up my arse— I can still _feel_ it. I’m still _oozing_ your spunk,” he says. Harry groans and the little flare of delight in Malfoy’s eyes fades immediately when Harry draws his hand up to his head.

“Too much?”

“No,” Harry says. “It’s just…” he snorts as softly as he can, in hopes his head won’t protest. “My head hurts.”

“Sorry. I’ll keep it quiet.”

“Were you even telling the truth?” Harry asks.

“Want to check?” Malfoy grins wickedly

“Yes. Fuck. No.” Harry sighs, leaning back against the pillows. “What happened?”

Pomfrey assured him there was a possibility of it all coming back, but added that with concussions, one can never be too sure. Harry thinks it’d be a damn shame to forget _any_ of it — he can count on one hand the amount of times he and Malfoy have actually got to go all the way, and he feels a little bitter toward the shadows to his memory — because he does remember that they hadn’t even meant to; it was supposed to be a quick wank in the back of the stacks. Studying for N.E.W.T.’s was taking all of their time lately and they’d barely had a chance to even snog for a bit in over a week. 

So when Malfoy had pulled his slick, kiss-bitten mouth away and muttered, “Fuck it, I want to. C’mon, Harry, hurry,” the way he had, using Harry’s given name for maybe the third time since they’d _met_ , and turned to brace himself against the shelf, shimmying his trousers and pants down around his knees, Harry certainly wasn’t going to say no. Malfoy’d even slapped at his encroaching fingers and snapped, “Stop, we don’t have time, just lube your cock and _do it_ ,” and Harry’s vision had tunneled, hand shaking as he spelled lube over his by-then _painful_ erection, and then he was getting into position and pushing in, pulling Malfoy’s narrow hips back to meet his pelvis, and _fuck_ it was so good. 

The trembling of the bookshelf was no surprise, either, Malfoy muttering, “Harder, fuck, _nnng_ , yes!” and dipping his spine in and he canting his arse up as Harry pounded him. Harry tried to take it easy but Malfoy wouldn’t _let_ him, fevered voice urging him on by saying such filthy things Harry was shocked he was a virgin up til a month ago, like, “Merlin, your cock is so fucking fat, Potter. You like that, don’t you, spreading me open for for it. Like watching it go into my arsehole, _guhh_ , fuck I can _hear_ you fucking me, you got me so wet inside, tell me what it looks like, tell me—” and choking off, spiralling Harry into a rage of frantic motion, forehead propped against Malfoy’s nape as he’d watched his prick plunge into him again and again, Malfoy’s glistening pink rim opening and fluttering around it, _squeezing_ it, until Harry was blind with need. 

“It’s so bloody hot,” was the only thing he could think of to say, which was true — but his balls were tingling and rising tight between his thighs and his orgasm was threatening, so when Malfoy half-twisted to take his mouth in a rough kiss, Harry shoved into him mindlessly and cried out, gripping the shelf next to Malfoy’s hand so hard the books started to topple.

And then he woke up in the infirmary. 

“What happened?” he asks again. Malfoy sits at the edge of his bedside carefully and hums under his breath. 

“Well, you couldn’t keep your hands off me—”

“I remember the first part,” Harry says. Malfoy shrugs, unabashed. 

“Then you’ll remember it’s true. I never said I was able to keep my hands off you, either. Anyway,” he says, though he doesn’t meet Harry’s eyes. His neck is growing red. “We, ah, were finishing and the books came down, and one of them knocked you on the forehead and I didn’t,” he suddenly looks very interested in the curtain around them, “exactly _notice_ right away.”

“What?” Harry tries to sit up, but the room immediately swoops. Malfoy puts a hand on his chest and pushes him back. 

“I was bloody _coming_ , wasn’t I?” he says defensively. His blush reaches his cheeks. “And you were still moving, and groaning, and I could feel— well, I knew you’d just come, I thought you were still working me through the rest of my… So I kind of pushed back against you, only I suppose you weren’t the steadiest on your feet right then because you fell back and crashed into the shelf behind us and the whole fucking thing came down, and you on top of it. Really, you should be thanking me for figuring out a way to get you dressed before Pince came and found us.”

“I should be— be _thanking_ you?” Harry doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. 

“Whatever. If anyone asks, I’ve told them the books came to life and began pelting you in the head of their own volition,. I was, of course, just an innocent bystander walking by,” Malfoy says with an inexplicable little smile. “They’ve been combing the library for the last two hours for whatever stray curse someone must have left there.”

“Fine,” Harry grumbles. “If you’d just let me do it to you in a bed sometime—” Malfoy’s smile vanishes. Alarmed, Harry remembers his objection to it the first time he brought it up, something about how shagging in a bed was something people who were _dating_ did. “I just mean—”

Malfoy’s Adam’s apple bobs silently. “I guess we could. Sometime.”

Harry exhales. Malfoy’s holding himself with perfect posture and won’t meet Harry’s eyes. Cautiously, stomach flipping with a hope Harry hadn’t even realised he’d _had_ , he says, “Would that make us…?”

“More comfortable. Maybe,” Malfoy hedges. He clears his throat. “Now I’ve got to get out of here before they catch me.”

“I thought they sent you in here to check on me,” Harry says, grinning through the fresh shot of pain that rockets through his skull.

“No, you must’ve imagined that. I just needed to make sure our stories matched.” Malfoy stands and fidgets for a second, then suddenly bends and kisses him, one hard smack, so fast Harry doesn’t have time to respond before he pulls away. 

“Try not to go into a coma,” he orders. He swivels on his foot and disappears behind the curtain with a furtive glance from side to side.

***

Harry automatically smiles and scoots his stool aside when Malfoy comes in. But Malfoy only flicks him a brief glance before marching up to Flitwick and dropping a folded piece of parchment onto his desk. Flitwick reads it and nods, gesturing a little tiredly for Malfoy to go sit down.

“Hey.” 

Malfoy ignores him, glancing at him once more as he roots around inside of his bag to pull out some parchment and a quill. He hunches over it, writing quickly. Confused, Harry thinks back. Everything was fine when they split up last night, leaving the Quidditch showers minutes apart so no one would suspect anything. Not that they necessarily would, everyone knows he and Malfoy hang out on occasion. 

“Are you okay?”

Malfoy tosses up one shoulder and scribbles faster, chewing on his lower lip. It’s a little chapped, and Harry shifts, remembering the way Malfoy’d slithered down his body, the spray from the shower hitting his back, to part his lips and take Harry’s prick in his mouth. He’d clamped tight fingers to Harry’s arse cheeks, guiding his thrusts back and forth until Harry got the idea and curled a hand in his hair, lust and something sweeter shuddering through him as Malfoy accepted the head of his cock down his throat. He’d sighed around it, _groaned_ around it, one arm going between his legs to wank himself has he’d tugged on Harry’s sac with nimble fingers. 

“Are you— Did I do something?” Harry whispers, leaning closer. He doesn’t like feeling this… this _nervous_ , like he might have cocked up. He’s done everything right so far, according to Malfoy’s fucked up instructions: he’s kept his mouth shut that they’re anything other than friendly acquaintances and doesn’t usually even try to push the five-minute rule Malfoy instituted about touching after sex. But maybe that’s it; he did kiss Malfoy for an awfully long time under the shower after his blowjob. 

Malfoy slides a the parchment over to him with a little huff. Harry looks around and puts it under the desk to read:

_You fucked my throat when you fucked my throat last night. I woke up without a voice and had to go get a potion before class, which should take two whole days to work. You’re lucky it’s a Friday and that I only have Arithmancy after this, you bastard. I had to give Flitwick a note excusing me from verbal spells for today. Don’t say a word._

Harry laughs, turning it into a cough when Flitwick looks up from his desk and Malfoy glares daggers at him. Harry plucks the quill from Malfoy’s hand and writes, _I’m sorry. I won’t even point out that it was your idea. Does it hurt?_

Malfoy clucks his tongue with a disgruntled shake of his head. Harry writes, _About me not saying a word… Is that just about this, or to you, or to anyone until you’ve got your voice back?_

He slides the note over again and Malfoy takes it with the quill, then glances up to Harry assessingly. 

_ To anyone. _

And Harry _knows_ that’s not what Malfoy originally meant — it’s his own damned fault for getting sarcastic in a note — but he does share some of the responsibility for Malfoy’s predicament, so he writes, _Okay. One second._

Ignoring Malfoy’s surprised stare, Harry gets up and has a brief conversation with Professor Flitwick, who rolls his eyes but sends him on his way. Harry tosses Malfoy a jaunty little smile on his way out of class and heads down to the Hospital wing.

He’s back in less than fifteen minutes and Madam Pomfrey’s exasperation seems a small price to pay to stay in Malfoy’s good graces. He hands his excuse to Flitwick and makes his way back to his desk, where Malfoy’s practically vibrating with curiosity, note already written out.

_WHAT WAS THAT????_

There’s another quill waiting for him, so Harry writes, _I said my throat was hurting and he sent me to Pomfrey. She gave me an excuse from verbal lessons._

Malfoy narrows his eyes. He hunches over the parchment. _She just gave you an excuse?_

_Well, no. I told her that a Bowtruckle flew into my mouth last night and I almost swallowed it before coughing it out and that my throat had been hurting ever since. She couldn’t find anything, but she said maybe one of its twigs scratched me. What was your excuse?_

A raspy, painful-sounding snort issues from Malfoy as he scans the note. He rolls his eyes, but the gesture looks almost affectionate, and Harry’s chest swells with pleasure. Malfoy writes, _Same thing I told Blaise when I woke up this morning and couldn’t talk. It was the first thing I could think of, Granger mentioned it last week. Apparently, I decided to join something called a Barbershop quartet in London, and I’ve been practicing too much._

Harry grins and nudges him. _I’d love to see you in one of those sparkly coats they wear._

_Stop imagining it._

_No._

_People now think I’m addicted to Muggle performing arts._ Malfoy sighs.

_Well, people think I’m weak enough that you can break my wrist and that books hate me, so it feels like we’re about even._

Malfoy huffs a little, lips turning up in a winsome grin. He shakes his head and opens his book, he he looks so, well, beautiful, that Harry impulsively writes, _We could just tell people, you know. That we’re together._

Blinking, Malfoy reads the note twice. His face goes impassive. Harry stills, heart thumping, as Malfoy slowly writes, _Don’t ruin a good thing with a dumb idea, Potter._

A hard edge of disappointment wars briefly in Harry with a stab of anger. It feels like the answer to a question that’s been haunting him for _months_ and he’s got half a mind to tell Malfoy to stuff it, that they should just stop once and for all. But then Malfoy traces Harry’s last words on the parchment lightly before folding it and tucking it away in his robes. He doesn’t look up as he sets to work.

Harry sighs and opens his own book.

***

“Oh, god,” Harry pants, trying to rein himself in. “I’m close.”

“Fuck, keep it down,” Malfoy hisses, even though he _saw_ Harry cast a Silencing charm. They’re in Harry’s bed and Malfoy squirms beneath him, hiking up one leg higher around Harry’s waist as Harry’s hips jerk on instinct with every plunge of his cock into Malfoy. The toes from Malfoy’s opposite foot, propped on Harry’s shoulder, curl a little against his head and Harry leans into it. 

“Feels… God, you’re so tight inside,” he whispers. He’s not quite got the hang of talking during sex that Malfoy has, but Malfoy doesn’t seem bothered, his eyes glinting and dark as he pulls steadily on his prick. 

“You’re making me so loose,” he breathes. He pushes his hips up to meet Harry, head rolling back against the pillow. “You get even harder when you’re going to come. F-f-fuck, that feels good, the way you’re fucking me, so deep—”

He breaks off with a gasp, his hand moving fast and furious over his cock now, the wet slap of wanking almost drowning out his tiny whimpers. Harry pushes into him faster, biting his lip so he won’t groan, thighs trembling as he ruts into Malfoy, maddened for his oncoming climax. Malfoy _is_ tight inside, and so hot and wet, muscles gripping like he can’t stand to let Harry pull back very far, so Harry thrusts deeper, grinding his pelvic bone against Malfoy’s arse. Malfoy’s tongue flickers out over his lips and Harry shivers with how much he—

“Oh, god, I’m coming,” Malfoy hisses. Long ropes of come cover his fluttering stomach, droplets hitting Harry’s stomach too as Malfoy works his hand over his prick. His shoulders press into the mattress as his back arches away from it. “Come, come on, come in me Harry, I want—”

“ _Unnh, Draco, fuck!_ Harry rocks into him hard and spills, body frozen above Malfoy, prick pulsing with hot licks of pleasure as Malfoy’s spasming arse clamps around it again and again. Malfoy’s staring at him, already heavy-lidded, and the moment feels like crystal, fragile and shining as his orgasm slows and fades. Harry swallows and says. “I like you so much.”

“You what?” Malfoy asks, voice going high, the satisfaction on his face twisting with startlement. Maybe it’s not the best time to be saying it, but Harry’s just plain tired of pretending this is _nothing_ , and when _is_ the right time, if not when he’s got his still lightly-spurting prick up Malfoy’s arse?

“I like you.” It feels good to say, even better when Malfoy twitches around him. “I really, really like you, Draco.”

And Malfoy kicks him in the face.

“What the _FUCK_!” Harry rears back at the explosion of pain, slipping out of Malfoy and covering his nose. It’s _gushing_ , and when Harry pulls one hand away, it’s covered with something dark and wet. Malfoy scrambles up to his knees, huge-eyed, hands hovering in front of him.

“ _Shhhh!_ ”

“What!” Harry roars stuffily. “You just _broke my fucking nose! Again!_ And you’re telling me to be _quiet_?”

“A— A simple _Episky_ should take care of it, don’t be such a baby,” Malfoy says in a frantic whisper, hunting through the rumpled bedcovers to locate his wand. He points it at Harry.

“Get that fucking thing _out of my face_ ,” Harry growls. A baby. A _baby?_ Rage floods him, as blistering as the sex was only moments ago. “If you hate me so much you’ll break my nose just because I told you _like_ you—”

“Potter, will you keep it down? I can explain—” Malfoy says, hands spread out calmingly in front of him. He crawls forward on his knees and Harry jerks away, tangling in the drawn curtains around his bed for a second before he’s free of them. He hits the floor with a thump, elbow crunching hard on the stone. 

“Fuck!”

“Wha— Huh?” Ron pops his head out of his bed hangings, blinking blearily for a single instant before he clambers out of his bed and shoots to Harry’s side. “What the fuck happened?”

“Broke my nose,” Harry mutters. “And maybe my elbow.”

“Yeah, I see that. _How?_ ”

Pure, bitter wrath makes Harry want to tell. To say, _I’ve been shagging Malfoy because his arse makes me want to scream and tear out my hair even though he’s got **no fucking heart**_. It would feel so good and at the moment, Harry could use a dose of that. But he glances up to see Malfoy through the drifting part in his bed hangings. He’s backed against the headboard, face desperate and even scared, the blankets drawn up to his chest. 

“I—” Harry falters. Scowling, he says, “I was levitating myself in my sleep, I think.”

“ _What?_ ” Ron’s eyes bulge. He helps Harry stand up. “That’s not a thing.”

“It is for me,” Harry mutters resentfully, skewering Malfoy with a glare just before he vanishes from Harry’s line of sight. “Lately. I must’ve banged into the wall and...fallen.”

“And, uh, is sleeping naked new, too?” Ron says, blanching a little as he takes in Harry’s state. He fixes his eyes upward, holding onto Harry’s arm but edging away and Harry realises that his dick is still wet. 

“I got hot.”

“It’s _Dec—_! You know what?” Ron blows out a hard breath. “That’s fine. You okay to stand?”

“Yeah.”

Ron releases him, looking relieved, and fetches Harry’s plaid dressing gown from their shared wardrobe. Grimacing, Harry lets go of his nose to slip it on. 

“Want me to fix your nose for you?” Ron asks, grabbing his wand.

“Uh, no. I hit it pretty hard. It was like a _kick in the fucking face_ ,” Harry says through his teeth. “Could you just help me down to see Pomfrey?”

“Yeah, sure, of course,” Ron says, grasping him by his uninjured elbow. 

They shuffle out and Harry hears the slight rustle of movement as the door closes behind them. It’s the best Harry can do give Malfoy space and won’t protect him from being seen in the halls, but it’ll have to suffice; Malfoy’d better be gone when they get back, if he knows what’s good for him.

***

“What in the bleeding hell are you doing out here? Do you know how hard it was to find you?”

Harry stiffens. That was rather the point. The castle was just too full of Malfoy, who suddenly seems to be lurking around every blasted corner. Harry would _rather_ sit out by himself in the icy weather, staring at the ripples of wind over the Black Lake’s surface, than be confronted with the tiny smirk on Malfoy’s face. Than to say _anything_ to him, at this point.

He stands and tucks tighter into his cloak, turning to leave.

“Where are you going? Potter. Potter!” Malfoy’s voice is quickly lost in the wind, but a few seconds later Harry hears the crunch of frozen earth under Malfoy’s feet as he jogs to catch up. He grabs Harry’s arm. “Why the hell are you leaving?”

“Got crowded,” Harry says tersely, trying not to look at him. It feels so _different_ than it did at the beginning of the year, those first fine threads of fascination weaving together with their kiss when they’d got locked in the potions cabinet for over an hour. He hasn’t been able to look at Malfoy since then and not see him like he did that afternoon before Slughorn came, slender lips swollen from snogging Harry, glossy hair messy from Harry’s hands. Something shrinks inside him at the idea of glancing up and seeing Malfoy’s face and _hating_ him again; he doesn’t want to do that, but the alternative option isn’t so appealing either, that churn in his stomach over what Malfoy thinks and if he might smile.

He’d got sex drunk, that’s all, and it was a mistake, all of it, a giant fucking mistake to _ever_ think that it could be more than—

“Fucking hell, what’s this about?” Malfoy bursts out, grabbing Harry’s arm again when he shrugs away. “So I broke your stupid nose; it’s not the first time. You didn’t whine about that half as much.”

“That was different.”

“How?” Malfoy tugs him closer, dropping his voice the husky murmur he knows makes shivers skitter up Harry’s spine. “If it’s a matter of making it up to you, you know I’m good for it. Like with your wrist,” he says, stepping in so they’re chest to chest. 

Unwillingly, Harry draws his eyes up. Malfoy’s looking at him so heatedly, so _intensely_ , Harry wouldn’t be surprised to find he was trying his hand at Legilimency. His breath fogs up Harry’s glasses, and he jostles Harry’s arm lightly. 

“Like with the concussion,” Malfoy says. “And you made things up to me, too, remember? My throat, and the muscle sprain, and that time I pinched my back…”

Harry inhales sharply. That had started as an apology massage and quickly led to Malfoy moaning half-hearted objections into his pillow when Harry couldn’t quell his curiosity and lowered his head to lap between Malfoy’s arsecheeks. _Wait, wait—! No, oh f—You don’t have to— nngghh, I can’t, ohsweetfuckingMerlinandChristdon’tstop!_

Harry’d been delighted at the time, too easily forgetting that he was Malfoy’s first, too, and liking that he’d learned Malfoy could be fussy and skittish when it came to trying new things, despite his talent for dirty talk.

“It’s not a matter of making it up to me,” Harry says, blinking a sift of snow or something else that blurs his vision out of his eyes. “I just don’t want to anymore.”

“Not want to?” Malfoy laughs in disbelief. “Everyone wants to. And we’re eighteen bloody years old, lucky enough to have found someone we can... And you’re saying _no?_ ”

“ _Yes_ ,” Harry says, face hot. “I’m saying _no._ ”

Malfoy draws himself up, face going blank. He squares his narrow shoulders and clips out, “Is this about you _liking_ me?”

Harry stares at him. He cracks a laugh. “It’s more about being with someone who’ll kick me in the face when I _say_ it, but yeah. I don’t want to shag someone who feels like I’m slightly better than his hand— or maybe not; most people probably _assume_ you use _that_ to get off. I thought—”

“What?” Malfoy says, fingers digging tighter into his sleeve when Harry tries again to pull away, gaze searching Harry’s face. 

“I thought we were....”

Malfoy brings up a hand and rubs it up and down over his face, exasperation radiating off him. “Potter, you fucking idiot. We _are._ I like you too, okay? I _really_ like you. A lot. Did you think I just bent over for you because you’re the Golden Boy?”

“I—” Harry’s throat dries up. Thrown, he looks at Malfoy doubtfully. 

“Did you think I’d ingested some illicit potion that first day in the potions cabinet that made me want to snog the shit out of you?”

“No, but—”

“Did you think, _despite my father’s horror if he ever finds out_ , that I’d keep doing it if you didn’t…” Malfoy swallows. “If you didn’t mean something to me?” He answers his own question with a shake of his head. “I should be really insulted, I’m sure, but I guess I can’t be surprised. You never have been that sharp.”

Harry lets that one pass. “But then why did you—”

“My foot was on your fucking _shoulder_ ,” Malfoy says, throwing his hands up. “I was startled when you declared your bottomless love for me. It wasn’t like I _meant_ to. You’re not the only one who,” he hesitates, then squares his shoulders again, “wasn’t positive of how the other felt.”

“Oh.” Harry swallows, heart thumping a glad, unsteady rhythm. “Well. It’s not bottomless. I mean, there’s a definite bottom there.”

Malfoy folds his arms over his chest and scoffs. “That’s awful.”

“It wasn’t my best.” Harry studies him carefully. “Why don’t you want anyone to know?”

“It’s just… Fun, isn’t it?” Malfoy looks at the white-grey sky as if searching for a way to explain when Harry looks at him dumbly. “Having something, you know, secret?”

It really can be, but Malfoy’s also rapidly turning red, so there’s got to be something more there. “Why else?”

“Fuck me,” Malfoy mutters under his breath. “Fine, whatever, but just remember this conversation when I’m right.” He gnaws on his lip. “Once people find out, do you think they’re going to let us keep—”

“Well, I’m not planning on giving McGonagall a rundown of what we _do_ ,” Harry says, horrified. Malfoy shakes his head, looking to the sky again. 

“At least you have a modicum of sense. Not _her_ , Potter. Everyone. Your friends, my friends. The press that takes so many photos, the public that sends you thousands of love letters a day. D’you think I’m somehow going to get away unscathed? That the pressure won’t make you want to…”

“Oh.” Something inside Harry softens. “Malfoy, if I can get through the last seventeen years, I think I’m pretty well equipped to withstand whatever other people throw at me. And I like making my own choices now. I like that you feel like one of them,” he admits, shoving away the embarrassment that rises when Malfoy’s grey gaze darts up to his. “I don’t mind keeping things... private, but it’d be a lot easier to sneak you into my room if Ron knew about us.”

“You think I’d be able to get off knowing that Weasley was aware of what we were doing?” Malfoy asks dryly, arching one brow.

“Okay, fair point,” Harry says, wincing. “But we could ask him to clear out. Hermione has her own room this year anyway. And I’d much prefer you weren’t shushing me and kicking me in the face when we were in the middle of…”

“Yeah. Alright, fine,” Malfoy says. “But just to clarify: I didn’t kick you in the face so much as you kicked yourself in the face with my foot. It’s not my fault.”

Harry grins, feeling as good about life as he did horrible not fifteen minutes ago. “And if you hadn’t been so intent on keeping me quiet, you might’ve been able to explain that.”

***

“Oh, _god,_ ” Malfoy moans, rolling his hips atop Harry and clinging to the headboard. The lamps are all on, and the room is warded with Silencing spells, Ron in Hermione’s room for the night, and Malfoy has been slowly riding Harry for so long, Harry’s gone stupid from it.

“Malfoy, fuck, faster, _please_ —” Harry twists, fucking up into him, but Malfoy shakes his head, the sweat on his neck catching the light. It’s _so_ much better when they don’t have to rush and be quiet. Harry resolves to get around to actually telling Ron soon, so they can do this more often.

“No,” Malfoy pants, “just a… little… longer….” 

Each grinding swivel of his hips drags his cock across Harry’s belly, but he won’t let Harry touch him. He rounds his shoulders, head dropping forward, biceps tensing as he clenches his hands against the headboard. He doesn’t look away from Harry’s face, doesn’t even blink. 

“I’m going to _come,_ ” Harry warns with a groan, feeling his rising climax in the twist of his ankles and the knots of his hands in the sheets as he tries to fight it off. “If you don’t, god, please just… Malfoy—”

And yes, fuck, _yes._ Malfoy starts a little, glazed eyes clearing, and rolls his hips faster. His cock, dripping and stiff, rubs enticingly against the clenching planes of Harry’s stomach, through his own tracks of precome left there. 

“Oh god,” he says again, breathing it. His thighs quiver on either side of Harry’s torso as he rises and falls higher, less the deep grind now and more of a rutting bounce. Faster. _Harder_. He doesn’t even growl the way he did before when Harry grips his hips. Fuck, they’re good at this, Harry thinks a little deliriously. Naturals, maybe.

But his mind goes blank at Malfoy’s low, deep cry. Riding Harry at a near-frantic pace, he starts to come, without even touching himself — and Harry does too, just lets go the way his body has been begging him to for the last several _excruciatingly_ good minutes. He shudders and comes, fingers so tight they’ll probably leave bruises over Malfoy’s hip bones as Malfoy slams down onto him with little “ _uhhh, uhhh_ ” noises. And just when Harry thinks he’ll never ever feel as good as he does in this moment—

—Malfoy comes down on him again and pain blooms sharp in Harry’s groin. He shoves Malfoy off him and yells, hands flying protectively to his crotch.

“ _WHAT DID YOU DO_?”

“What did _I_ do?” Malfoy has the gall to look affronted, lashes fluttering rapidly as he scans Harry with irritation and then grudging concern. “What’s— what happened?”

“You— fuck, my _cock_!”

“Yeah, I did…?” Malfoy cocks his head to the side, glaring at Harry like he’s daft. 

“It’s… It _hurts!_ ”

Malfoy’s brows go flat. He wrestles Harry’s hands away from himself — Harry groans, frantically shaking his head — and his eyes widen. He replaces Harry’s hands. “Uh, yeah, okay, so: good news, bad news.”

“What? Get me to _medical!_ ”

“Right, yes, that’s the bad news,” Malfoy says, taking a deep breath before calmly casting a Patronus. He murmurs to his silver little fox and it promptly darts out of the room. “There’s definitely something, uh, a little broken about your… But I’m sure it’s easily fixable. And the good news is, from your perspective at least, I don’t think there’s any explanation that people will believe other than, uhm, what happened. So remember how much you like me when everyone knows.”

“Like you? I’m going to bloody _kill_ you,” Harry moans, rolling from side to side. “And I’ll kill you if anyone finds out about this! And if people know where I’m— oh, fuck, where is Pomfrey?”

“How many times are you going to kill me, again?”

“ _THREE_ ,” Harry says, the pounding of footsteps coming down the hall. He tugs the blanket up over his nudity as Malfoy slips out of bed and opens his trunk, swiftly pulling out Harry’s Invisibility Cloak and donning it. 

Everything but his head covered, he says, “It’s up to you,” he says, all unfair challenge in the face of Harry’s mind-bending pain. “You can tell them it was Peeves for all I bloody care, or say it was me.”

The door bursts open and Pomfrey spills in, along with Ron and Hermione, Neville, and a host of other eighth year students Harry’s suffering too much to put a name to. 

“Malfoy did it,” Harry grinds out at Madam Pomfrey’s startled halt at the foot of his bed, because really, he’s got nothing at this point and there’s no fucking way he’s bringing Peeves into this. “With sex!”

Malfoy loosens the cloak to it drops around the tops of his arms like a swaddling towel. His bare shoulders, neck, and head float disconcertingly above it. “ _Accidentally,_ ” he says clearly when everyone’s eyes swing to him. “I accidentally did it.”

Madam Pomfrey blinks. “Alright,” she says. “Everyone gawking can leave now.”

“He’s my best mate,” Ron says.

“Mine too!” Harry hears from Hermione.

“I just wanna know what happened,” someone else mutters. 

“Well, I’m his—” Malfoy stops and glowers at everyone instead of finishing, daring them to comment. A lot of them fall back, and thank fuck too, because Harry’s groan a moment later sounds decidedly indecent as Pomfrey’s anesthetising spell washes over him. 

“I _knew_ there was no such thing as levitating yourself in your sleep,” Ron says. 

“Everyone!” Madam Pomfrey snaps over her shoulder to the people lingering. “Mr Malfoy, you can stay.”

Harry closes his eyes, willing the moment away. But then Malfoy touches his hand. He slides his fingers through Harry’s and lets Harry hold him tight, gaze steady when Harry looks up, and it could be the another surge from Madam Pomfrey’s spell, but the rest of Harry’s pain fades to the background like static.

“Okay,” Malfoy says, wry and apologetic. “That one was my fault.”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are lovely. Also, I'm on [tumblr](https://bixgirl1.tumblr.com/) now. *waves*


End file.
